Three Balconies and a Staircase
by hollysarena
Summary: She thinks she's a failure and he just thinks she's beautiful, but he'd never admit it. Three balconies and a staircase - why is it that they always seem to fall on each other when everything else is falling apart? Rose/Scorpius.  T
1. The First Balcony

_This is our last chance, _  
><em>Give me your hands. <em>  
><em>'Cause our world is spinning at the speed of light<em>.

- Animal by Ke$ha.

* * *

><p>The clouds are so thick tonight that she can only just see the muffled blinking dots that are the stars. With a dour thought on how this night reflects the end of her education, she presses the full bottle to her lips and takes a gulp.<p>

Then she spits it all out over the cobbled balcony because she's Rose Weasley and Rose Weasley has never had a swig of Firewhiskey before in her entire life. Why tonight, she finds a small voice asking her inside of her head. Because she was supposed to make something of herself and she hasn't, she thinks back, pissing herself off more by the moment. Perhaps she should just throw herself off of the balcony and end it.

She pulls herself back to reality with a bitter laugh. That would certainly be a headline: Two-Thirds of the Golden Trio lose a child due to her utter failure. How tragic.

Now she is just being a drama queen and she knows it. Only drama queens spend the night before graduation up on the Astronomy tower occupied by only a bottle of poison and even more poisonous thoughts. It's pathetic. She's being pathetic and she's very aware of the fact.

She blames it on the pressure that everyone else seems to find non-existent. But it's there because she can feel it. The weight that presses down on her chest whenever a test is announced in class, and there's that moment where the Professor looks in her direction and thinks, 'Yes, Rose Weasley will undoubtedly pass this with flying colours for she is the child of Hermione Granger, the Brightest Witch of Her Age,'. She can feel it in the cracking of her bones from attempting to be the best Keeper that Gryffindor has ever seen - her father was the 'King' and Quidditch talent was, of course, hereditary. It might've seemed like being the eldest child of two Wizarding World idols would've made your life a piece of cake, but all it did was set the expectations of you too high. So high, in fact, if you made one tiny mistake, you'd fall to your inevitable failure.

Which Rose thinks she has. Fallen from the sky high pedestal that she's made for herself. She shouldn't really be complaining; passing her Seventh Year exams with straight Os should be something to celebrate, shouldn't it? But she can't help looking back on her high school years and feel like she's been missing out. There's no memories of partying or late nights - unless they were in the Library - and there's definitely no detentions scorching her perfect and golden record. She was the poster child for being a swot, while the rest of her cousins spent their time wallowing in popularity and attention.

She's mildly contemplating pouring the rest of the Firewhiskey over the balcony into the darkness below when a familiar voice makes her blood turn to ice. Then she turns, composing her face into a look she's been practicing for years, towards the boy who's been the cherry on top of her Hogwarts mess of a cake.

"Don't waste that," he says, walking towards her. She would call it strutting except there's an effortless fashion about it that even she finds fascinating. In a disgusted kind of way, naturally.

He reaches her and she has to fight the urge to step backwards; they're adults now and the least she can do is pretend to be civil. Taking the bottle from her, she notices that he smirks at the amount of liquid left and she wants to hit him. She doesn't though, she just looks out to the silhouette mountains and the moon's distorted reflection on the Lake as it peeks from behind a cloud.

Animosity is radiating off her very skin and she's surprised that he can't feel it. It's not that they're standing particularly close, but it's definitely a closer proximity than she has ever allowed before. She has a feeling that if it was up to him, he'd have touched her sometime back in Fourth or Fifth year.

"Nice night," he drawls, but something in his typical I'm Better Than You voice is lacking. Still, she notices his smirk is still in tact. She keeps her gaze forward and tenses her jaw, so he presses the bottle to his lips to fill the silence.

It's a shame really. The thing is that he's almost sorry that they never became friends. It made sense; she is smart and he is smart, she is beautiful and so is he. Something like a friendship between people like them was the kind of thing to spark controversy, and there was nothing more that Scorpius liked than creating chaos - no matter how slight.

But there was no way that she is ever going to let them become friends. No, definitely not. Probably because, even though she will never admit it, she's jealous. He is everything that she ever wanted - still _wants _- to be. Despite his impeccable grades, the boy still finds time to bed everything eligible girl in the school and party on a Friday night. There is no pressure to be a golden boy for him, his name is already tainted, and he doesn't give a damn.

That's what she wants to most: to be able to not give a damn about anything.

At least she's still not a virgin. That would probably have been enough to send her over the edge. Metaphorically, of course. Suicide is still pathetic, even though at this moment, she will do anything to get away from him.

She flicks her eyes sideways, studying him like she does every other day. He's become a bit of an obsession for her - but not in a romantic way. More in the way she looks at a particular horrendous Arithmancy problem for hours until she gets it. That kind of obsession.

It startles her, mainly because she can't tell how much time has passed, when he chuckles slightly. "Stop staring at me, Weasley."

Now her ears are turning red but it's dark and she's thankful that unless Malfoy has some strange night-vision then he can't see them. However, knowing the overachieving, cocky bastard, she thinks he probably can.

"I'm not staring," she says indignantly, but it's so clear that she really is. And she knows that he knows it. He's perceptive like that. Always has been.

Smirking as always, he nods a little, just to humor her but it only throws her off. In what parallel universe does Scorpius Malfoy _humor _Rose Weasley?

He holds the bottle towards her casually, letting the moonlight trinkle through the sloshing amber liquid. His silver eyebrow is arched in a challenge and she'll be damned if she doesn't take it. And Merlin, it burns so much as it hits her throat. She swallows defiantly though and she thinks that she almost spots an impressed flicker in his stony eyes.

A small feeling of achievement wells in her stomach. To impress Scorpius Malfoy hasn't been something she'd ever aimed for, but she knows that he isn't easily impressed. Her hand swirls the bottle through the cold air and she smiles out into the night.

That's all they do. They stand in silence, passing the slowly depleting bottle between them, not saying a single word. Rose doesn't know how long has passed by, and neither does he, but they're both becoming comfortably aware of the haze creeping in on their sight. Despite the fact that a drop of strong liquor has never passed her lips, Scorpius realizes that she handles it particularly well. Better than he did on this first time, at least.

Out of the blue, a giggle bubbles from her mouth and breaks the silence. Scorpius looks to her, a smile of intoxication slowly spread across his features. "What?" he asks, and she only looks at him and laughs harder. He frowns. Is she laughing at him? Is there something on his face?

He stops his hand midway towards his forehead when he notices her turning. Red wisps of her hair catch the dim lamplight cascading through the window, turning them to burning embers. Merlin, she's _beautiful _and he'd admit it like it was a fact, but never like it affected him. And it did affect him, more than he ever wanted anything to.

She's smiling at him and he can't help but feel a little wary. Rose never smiles at him. Then he remembers that she's drunk and he's drunk, and whatever happening right in this moment, whatever this moment is, he shouldn't let it slip away. Even if it is with a Weasley.

He's staring at her in a way that makes her heart leap, more than she's comfortable with. Still, her smile doesn't waver. She can't help but see - like she's always seen - how utterly gorgeous he is with his tousled white blonde hair, stormy grey eyes and that jaw line that sends shivers down her spine. And those lips, for the love of Circe. Why hadn't she noticed those before?

Warning bells are screaming inside her head: this was _Malfoy _and he was becoming alarmingly close. So close, in fact, that she can trace the scar of the side of his jaw where she'd hit him with her broom in Third Year. There's a whisper of a smirk on those tempting lips and something in his eyes that she can't decipher. Could it be possible that Scorpius Malfoy was actually coming onto Rose Weasley?

"Rose," says the beautiful boy in front of her, but his voice is rough, like it's fighting against him just to get out. It sends shudders through her, but she refuses to show it. Instead, her eyes are wide on his and the smile is slipping away. When she doesn't back away, flinch or yell profanities at him for using her first name, he takes it as a green light and steps towards her. "Why are you up here tonight?"

While his voice was soft, sensual, the question was so intrusive that Rose wants to back into a corner and build metal walls around herself. Impenetrable, that's what she'd once been called. But she doesn't. She swallows back her pride, a little easily done with the help of the Firewhiskey, and answers him.

"I've failed everything," she goes to say firmly, but it comes out in barely a whisper. The surprise that contorts his face for a second makes her want to run away, but she fights the urge and roots her feet to the floor. If she was going to anything wild and dangerous in her Hogwarts life, it might as well be this. However, the surprise is gone as soon as it came, and he's studying her with an intensity that triggers something inside.

The last thing she expects him to do is touch her. "How could you have possibly failed?" he asks, and his hand is cupping her cheek. She doesn't jerk away and, contrary to her previous beliefs, his touch isn't like acid. In fact, if she's being honest, it's really quite nice.

"I don't know," she whispers to him. "I just feel like I've missed out on everything. No late night parties, no drinking, no reckless kissing."

As soon as the last word leaves her mouth, it's caught between both of their lips as he kisses her. She forgets what to do. She stands there, frozen for a moment, before dissolving into somewhat of a marshmallow person against him. It's a quick kiss - soft, tender - but her lips flare at his, and her ears are turning red. Again. This time she knows it isn't because she's angry. Their mouths don't fit together like jigsaw pieces and there's no firework display, but she's pretty sure that it's the most alive she's felt in... well, ever.

Surprisingly, he's the first to pull away. She stares at him, dazed and wondering to herself what the hell just happened. In fact, she's not even sure if it actually happened. Then, he gives her a half-smirk, half-smile and she waits for regret to punch her in the stomach. It doesn't.

"There," he says in a breathy, triumphant voice. "Now you've had a reckless kiss, just in time."

Now, she stares at him, unsure what to say or what to do because the reality of what has just happened is slapping her in the face like a wet fish. She has kissed her arch-nemesis, the very boy she has spent the last seven years avoiding like the flu. And, at the end of all the feuding, fighting and sarcastic remarks, she's just gone and kissed him.

And she wants to do it again.

He's watching her carefully, trying to decipher her thoughts because he's - yes, the Great Scorpius Malfoy - is scared out of his mind that she might reject him. A girl has never rejected him before and he's never been worried, but Rose Weasley has always been different. Excuse the pun but she's been the thorn in his side since he was eleven years old. Always a constant reminder of her presence. If Scorpius was being honest with himself, which he never is, he'd say that he had a crush. An irrational, nonsensical crush on the girl he could never have.

But she just kissed him. That had to mean something, right?

"I have to go," she whispers, and his heart plummets. Then he catches himself because a Malfoy's heart should never plummet. He watches as she turns towards the great big wooden doors, confusion painted on her face. At least it isn't regret, he thinks.

"Goodnight," he murmurs flatly, just as the great wooden doors shut and he's left alone with a nearly empty bottle of Firewhiskey. Not only that, but no matter how many times he licks or bites or sucks on his lips, he can't get rid of the taste of Rose.

Then he realizes he's not sure if he wants the taste to go.

* * *

><p><strong>So yeah. Hello. This is the first thing I'm posting in a little while, so I might be a little rusty. It might be a three-shot kind of thing or it might be more, I don't know. But I hope you liked it. If you did, please post a little thing in my review box :) That would make my day.<strong>


	2. The Second Balcony

_Leave unsaid, unspoken  
>Eyes wide shut, unopened<br>__You and me,  
><em>_Always between the lines.  
><em>

_- _Between the Lines by Sara Bareilles.

* * *

><p>Nights like these are nights that he isn't familiar with. He's <em>Scorpius Malfoy <em>for Merlin's sake. Malfoys don't do break ups, unless they're the one initiating it. He doesn't know what to do, so he just stands there on the balcony outside the club that's vibrating with techno music - which he hates - and stares.

"I just think that, well..." she starts, and then the thousand angry bees in his ears block out whatever sad, rehearsed excuse she's using to end whatever the hell _they _are. Fury decides to take an unexpected absence, so he's left with only one emotion: sarcasm.

Using his typical I'm A Heartless Bastard smirk, he cocks his head to the side and waits for her to finish. The poor girl doesn't know what's about to hit her. Introducing: Haley Nott. Pretty girl - dark hair, dark eyes and an even darker sense of humour. It's what attracted him to her in the first place but as soon as they hit _relationship _she reduced into a nagging, sarcastic, bitch. For lack of a better word.

But the sex was fantastic so how could he possibly have left?

Well, now he's facing the consequences. He's getting dumped. For the first time in Wizarding History, a Malfoy is being dumped. _His father is going to kill him._

"So, perhaps we should just be-"

He cuts her off smoothly. "If you say friends, you might as well Avada yourself on the spot." She stares at him, obviously taken aback, and he just lets his sardonic lips widen. Even he knows that he's being a prick. "I don't really do friends, let alone friends with a girl who I know, firsthand, will shag anyone in a public toilet."

"That was you!" she exclaims, her nostrils flaring. Oh dear, he thinks in amusement, he has hit a nerve. What he doesn't expect, however, is for her to hit him. Right in the jaw.

Now pain burns through the canals of his nose and throat, as he chokes out a curse. "Haley, what the _fuck_?"

"Screw you, Malfoy," she spits at him acidly. "You pompous prat! You might've been a Slytherin once in your life, but so was I. It doesn't give you an excuse to treat everyone and everything like shit!"

"No," he replies, cracking a bloody smirk then wincing. "But being a Malfoy does."

Haley simply snorts, flips him a slender, unladylike gesture and storms back into the lively club. Fluroescent lights pierce the night's sky as she opens the door, allowing the pounding beats of music to escape into the cold air. He squints into the brightness, trying to follow her angry silhouette but she's gone. He's alone.

Again.

God, he needs a drink. He leans against the delicate, curling rails of the balcony and stares down at the view below him. Rows of identical grey houses, stretching out into the distance, each with their own identical, perfectly manicured gardens. In some weird, twisted way, they remind him of himself. Grey, cold, and perfectly uniform. Though, he thinks bitterly, those houses are probably a little warmer on the inside.

He thinks back to his childhood. Endless nights of his own company, cooped up in his lavish bedroom surrounded by nothing but intellectual textbooks and the occasional item of Quidditch gear. His father's ego had been thoroughly bruised after the Wizarding War and Scorpius had been made into a statement - despite whatever had happened to the Malfoy name, his son would reclaim its status through brilliance.

And that's exactly what Scorpius had done. He'd aced his N.E.W.T.S and was currently working his way through the Kensington Wizarding Institute to gain his B.A.T.S (Bachelors of Artistic Transfiguration) and become an Wizarding Architect. The only problem being that his father thought anything that he did was a waste of time. As hard as Draco Malfoy had tried not to turn out like his own father, signs of Lucius started to appear in him the more he grew older.

Where is that drink? He spins around to head back into the club and collides with something. Something that is soft, hard and fiery all at the same time.

He looks down to see a pretty red-head in a green, velvet dress crouched as she grabs at her bag frantically. One flick of his stone gaze over her body, and he knows who she is instantly. Of course, he'd recognize her anywhere.

As suave as he can still manage, he swoops down to help her and gently presses his fingers into the crook of her elbow. Leading her upwards, he waits. Waits for the recognition to spark in her ocean eyes, or the smile of familiarity that will light them. Then he remembers that she never used to smile at him and that, possibly, Haley Nott had a point.

"Are balconies going to be a recurring setting for our meetings, Weasley?" he says, letting his fingers absently stroke against the inside of her wrist. The red-head snaps her arm back now, dropping her things all over the floor again and stares at him with wide eyes. For a moment, just a moment, Scorpius thinks he catches the faintest flicker of attraction in her expression, but it passes and he's left to deal with flat, dry amusement.

He can't help but notice how, well, _sexy _she looks now that she's all grown up and out of uniform. "Only when I'm throwing you off of one," she replies snarkily, running her fingers through her hair. After a moment she notes the trickle of blood that has dried against his chin. "But it seems someone has beat me to it."

Self-consciously, his hand almost flies to his mouth, but instead it swoops to catch a ringlet of her hair. In his mind, he makes a note to congratulate himself on his quick catch. "Now, now, Weasley. _Rose_," he adds, with a particularly charming smile. "Such hostility surely isn't becoming in a pretty young lady like you."

"Who hit you?" she asks, ignoring his slender, pale digit twisting itself around a curl. The contrast is stark; sunset red against porcelain cream. Scorpius simply smirks and steps closer to her. Instantly, reflexively even, her hand shoots up and hard against his chest holding him back. "Don't you dare even think about it, Malfoy."

"Think about what?" He attempts to smile innocently, but his mouth is like a shark's. Powerful, sharp and, ultimately, the death of you.

Rose rolls her eyes as she turns away from him, walking to the railing. The night sky is clear, despite it being the middle of March, and in the horizon, she can just make out the shadowed figure of Big Ben. She wonders what time it is, and suddenly, Scorpius is by her side again.

She doesn't want to look at him anymore. If she did, she thinks, she might actually fall into his illustrious trap of temptation. They haven't seen each other since their Graduation Day, and not a word was passed between them. She was hopeful that she would never see him again, because after that kiss when she was seventeen, it seemed that the image of his face had been burned on the backs of her eyelids. No one stood up to her standards anymore. Not a single person, a single kiss, a single touch.

And there he is, standing in all of his glory and with a split lip, staring at her with his stupid smirk. It's a moment of deja vu and she hates it. Despite being a witch, her mind has always taken a more logical path. The last thing that Scorpius Malfoy is, is logical.

Then why is it that she doesn't move when he steps closer and closer? His hands snake around her waist, his abdomen - toned, she notes in the back of her mind - presses against her side softly and his lips come to her ear. "Rosie," he whispers.

It isn't until she feels the wet of his tongue flicking against her earlobe that she's brought back to reality.

"Don't you "Rosie" me," she snaps, tugging herself away. He simply watches her amusedly and she so desperately wants to wipe the smirk off his face, no matter how hurt he already is. "I don't live under a rock. I've seen _Witch Weekly_. I've read all about you and your conquests."

A wave of mock hurt washes over his perfect face. "I would've thought you of all people would know not to believe everything that _Witch Weekly _says."

"I believe this," Rose replies, casting him a weak glare, but it changes into a look of almost soft amusement. "You've not changed since Hogwarts."

He looks at her - _really _looks at her - and for the first time, he realizes that what she says is a lie. He has changed and so has she. In fact, if it wasn't for their little rendezvous on the eve of their Graduation Day, Rose Weasley probably wouldn't have been at the club at all. She would've probably been at her pristine, but demanding, job in the Ministry, slaving away into the early hours of the morning. He allows himself a little satisfaction - he bet it killed her inside that he had been such a turning point in her life.

She still looks the same, however. Petite, with subtle curves and a face covered in light freckles. Her auburn hair is a halo around her head and her blue eyes were still narrowed at him half-heartedly. The only thing that had changed was the fact that she had really grown into a woman. She wasn't some bookworm with a scowl anymore.

"We've both changed," he murmurs gently. "And you know that."

A beat passes between them before Rose finally turns to look at him. She's studying him, her head tilted and any anger, hate or resentment that had once plagued her attitude was now gone. "Changed enough for you not to try and shag me the moment you see me?" she asks, the corner of her lip upturning in a smile.

He laughs and he's surprised at how light it feels. As if an enormous weight - like a baby elephant or something as equally dramatic - has been taken from both of their shoulders and they can just relax. Maybe this is what being grown up really feels like - letting go and just accepting each other for every flaw they have.

"Alright," Scorpius agrees. Stepping back from her, he leans his elbow on the railing and gives her a mocking, polite smile. "So, what exactly do we do now?"

"We talk," says Rose. Talk? He looks at her as if she's suddenly grown a second head and should be sent of to St. Mungos. She notes this and smirks. "Yes, Scorpius, _talk. _It's what civilised _grown-ups _do."

Something close to resentment, probably laced with a bit of malice, tingles in his stomach at her smug look, but he pushes it away because getting angry would only satisfy her. And the only satisfaction she was going to get would not be from _that_. No, he had something else in mind entirely.

However, by the looks of it, Rose isn't going to hand him that anytime soon, so he finds himself falling into a pleasant - yes, pleasantries coming from a _Weasley_ - conversation about their lives at present. His school, her school (which, in fact, turns out to be the same place, though a different department), where they both are staying, but the subject of their families is expertly left alone. Soon enough, the pair were leaving the balcony to walk side by side down the lamp lit streets of London.

* * *

><p>"So, he tore up your paper?" she asks, almost incredulously, as she turns exactly two and three quarters of a teaspoon of creamer into her coffee. Her blue eyes sparkle from the sunlight streaking in through the cafe windows, turning them into the Lake in summertime. Nostalgia waves over Scorpius as he watches them flicker and the urge to reach out and touch her cheek almost astounds him.<p>

He clears his throat after a few silent moments, consciously aware of her expectant look. "Yes! In front of everyone. I swear, if my father knew..."

"Oh, your _father_," Rose snorts teasingly. She watches him over the rim of her cup, hiding her bright smile behind it. "You'll never grow out of being a Daddy's Boy, will you Scorpius?"

It's been a week since the night at the club and each day, Scorpius had managed to fill his free time in the company of Rose. It hadn't been intentional; in fact, he hadn't planned to see her again at all. His mind had moved onto prettier, although easier, conquests. Still, he couldn't help but agree to lunch with her when she'd slammed herself into him "by accident" one day in the Kensington Library. Of course, he knew Rose would be there, but he tried to tell himself that wasn't the reason he decided to check it out for the first time the morning after they met again. And when she wrinkled her nose up at him, with her ocean eyes all hopeful, he knew it'd be a crime to say 'no'.

However, even he couldn't lie to himself about knocking on her dormitory door (which, after some very excellent detective work, he managed to find out) and asking her for coffee the next day. It had kind of become a ritual, this drinking coffee and tea together thing. It was even like they were friends.

_Friends_. Since when did he do friends? Since a five foot four red-headed bookworm had decided he would, apparently.

"And you'll always be a frizzy-haired Library hermit," says Scorpius scathingly, though he gives her a playful smile to take the edge off, "won't you Rosie?"

She tosses a sugar cube over the table at him, but he effortlessly drops his head to catch it in his mouth. Flashing her a grin, he leans forward, licking his lips.

"If you kiss me now, I'll taste like sugar," he says, his usual smirk starting to form at the corner of his mouth. Rose purses her lips in a pretend thoughtfulness before batting him on the nose with her rolled up _Daily Prophet_.

As he rubs his nose with a protesting grumble, she sends him a soft smile. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually..."

He stops fussing over his nose and looks directly at her. Was there something in the way she was looking at him or was that his imagination? He was usually good at reading girls - the flicks of hair, the batting of eyelashes - but Rose never did either of those things. Yet, the way she was looking at him now, the way her fingers tapped in a nervous fashion against her cup, and the way she was chewing her lip all made him feel a little uneasy. Although, he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

"Oh, yeah?" His voice almost cracks like a thirteen-year-old boy going through puberty. Something starts to twist in his stomach and, he swears to Merlin, even his palms are starting to clam up.

She nods delicately and instantly his eyes transfix on the bounce in her curls. Stop it, he scolds himself. This is Rose Weasley, for Merlin's sake.

"Yeah," she half-mimics, watching him warily. "Scorpius, um, we're... friends, right?"

He mirrors her previous nod, but his head feels heavy, mechanical. It were as if his brain was suddenly made of lead. "Yes."

Rose's eyes shimmer with her momentary breath of relief, but they become wary again as soon as it passes. They flick over his face, taking in each detail, and it makes him want to squirm. What exactly is she going to say? What does he want her to say?

"And these," she waves her hands around vaguely, "coffee meetings; what exactly are they?"

He blinks at her and tries his best to compose his face into a humoured smile. "Well, when two people enjoy each other's company, they go to a cafe and they drink coffee together. Sometimes, they even talk. Honestly, Rose, you must be dim if you haven't figured that out already."

She lets out a weak laugh and wraps her arms around her middle in a self-conscious manner. For a split second, Scorpius is irritated by a fierce protectiveness over her and forcefully pushes it away. _Stop it_, he scolds himself, but his eyes can't help but fixate on the way her curls bounce when she fidgets in her chair.

"No, I know that, but..." Another pause as she chews her lip again. "Um, well, are they dates?"

_Are they_? Scorpius sits frozen, his mind whirring as he tries to come to terms with the question. He likes Rose, which is more than he can say for any of his other girlfriends, and she makes him laugh. She can hold a decent conversation and there's nothing quite as amusing as pushing her buttons. Do those things make it a date? Or are they simply aspects of a - he almost shudders at the thought - blossoming friendship?

After staring at her for a while, he clears his throat again and shrugs. With a effortless smile, he says the first thing that comes to his head, "Why ruin this by adding all that stupid sexual tension into the mix?"

For a moment, Scorpius wants to swallow in the air, taking his words with him. He swears he catches a hurt look on her face, but he blinks, and when he looks at her again, she's smiling at him in relief. Now, he can tell, there's probably a hurt look on _his _face.

"Good," she says, rubbing salt in his wound and almost bruising his ego. "I just wasn't sure. I needed to ask."

He frowns at her. Why could she possibly need to verify whether or not they were an item? To put her girlish curiosity to rest, he supposes. Still, he needs to ask too.

"Why?"

A blush creeps up her neck, a soft scarlet that tinges her freckled cheeks. "Well, you know, Mark Allenby? He's in your department actually. Architecture."

_Sod, _Scorpius says silently, trying to keep the scowl of off his face. When he doesn't answer, Rose continues into a ramble of how they met, and how sweet he was, and how she just had to make sure that Scorpius and herself weren't "going anywhere" before she agrees to a date with him.

"He's going to take me to _The Belladonna_," she ends, with a beam. "I've never even been inside, let alone eaten there! The tables are booked until nearly October."

"I know," Scorpius replies, not quite able to keep the bitterness from his voice. "How did the great Allenby manage to score a reservation?"

Rose smiles, the kind of shy smile a girl gets when she's giddy over her new crush. The kind of smile that makes Scorpius want to vomit up the majority of his double-shot latte. "He has _connections_."

Connections. Annoyance surges through Scorpius before he stop himself. Allenby has _connections_. Well, guess who else has connections? With Death Eaters, as well. The kind of people who could Avada that prat Mark Allenby on the spot before he could cry out Rose's name.

Before he can protest, which he wasn't particularly planning on doing anyway, Rose is standing in her seat and dropping a few Galleons onto the table. Scorpius moves to stop her, but she waves him off. "My treat," she says, with a smile.

"But I'm the guy," Scorpius replies, standing suavely. "I'm pretty sure it's my job."

A conspiratorial smile spreads across Rose's face. "This isn't a date, therefore, as your friend I am allowed to pay. End of story."

And, as Rose Weasley does, she leaves him, needing to have the last word like always. He stares after her, something in his stomach grumbling, which he thinks might be his appendix, but then he realizes its just pure irritation. Irrational irritation at that. He doesn't even want to date Rose! Isn't it selfish of him to get angry (he refuses to even think the word _jealous_) over some poor bloke that he doesn't even know?

He doesn't even care. All he knows is that, while he hated the term "friends" before, he hates it even more now.

* * *

><p><strong>Phew. This was a longer one than the last. That's probably because we see two scenes instead of the one. So, what do you think to Scorpius? That's my main concern. I'm worried that I'm not giving him justice. Please, please, please point out any grammar mistakes. Grammar plus Holly equals arch nemesis(es?).<strong>

**I also want to thank the four people - well, really, it was three. Sammi, you're my best friend, you don't really count, love - who reviewed. It really meant a lot to me! **


	3. The Staircase  Part One

_Your hands can heal,  
>Your hands can bruise,<br>Don't have a choice,  
>I still choose you.<em>

_-_ Poison and Wine by The Civil Wars._  
><em>

* * *

><p>Rose Weasley has always loved snow. Ever since she was a child, she would sit at the window for hours and watch the delicate, shimmering flakes fall to a perfect blanket across the ground. It always seemed to come at the best of times – when her first pet rabbit (with the ill-fitting name of Boomslang) died, when she had failed her first flying lesson and when her Uncle Percy and Aunt Audrey almost went through an awful divorce. Snow, to her, is a fresh white canvas. It's a symbol of a new beginning.<p>

She sits in the window sill of her apartment, watching as the flurry of white obscures the street lamps' glow. Cars beep in the distance, the muffled voices of frustrated commuters shout out – this time it seems to have come at the most inconvenient time possible. Her breath fogs up the glass as she stares silently, the crackling of the fire filling in the gaps that the sound of commotion outside has missed. For some reason, the gap in her heart that's missing someone seems to be growing with each snowflake.

The sound of their argument still bounces in echoes from the apartment walls, assaulting her ears and jumbling her thoughts. She can barely remember what had started it. All she knows is that he found the letters, the ones she thought were entirely innocent, and flew off the handle. Maybe if she could read them over, figure out what was really being written, it would all make sense. However, what remains of the letters are a few, tattered scraps of parchment littered around her living room floor.

Out of everything, she hates Mark for ruining them.

Her head snaps towards the door at the sound of keys jingling, but after a few moments of her held breath, no one comes. Swallowing, she pulls herself away from the window, dropping to pick up the small amount of torn memories that are able to be rescued.

She places them out on the rug in front of her, tucking her legs in a basket. The amber glow from the livid fire lights the ink of the ripped pages, easing the flowing handwriting up so she can see. Nothing about any of the letters seems wrong. Nothing seems out of place. Her hands move fluidly, moving the pieces around like a puzzle, trying to find a flaw. What if something was hidden in them that she missed? A written code, perhaps.

Each scrap of paper – there's seven in total – change their position on the rug until she gives up, throwing her hands in the air and breathing out a soft sigh of exasperation. She's almost disappointed. If there had been something hidden in the letters, it might have been something she was looking forward to. After all, something inside of her had been yearning for it after all this time.

One by one, she reads the jagged letters over again.

… _and it's beautiful here, Rose. It really is. You'd love it. Sometimes I lie in bed, staring up at the exquisite ceilings and imagine pulling you from the cold, damp streets of London just so you were here experiencing it with me. Can you imagine it? Tuscany! We could visit…_

Nothing stands out to her. Not really. If she honest, the thought of him lying in bed and thinking of her gives her heart a little jolt, but she knows him and she knows that it doesn't mean anything. She knows that he merely recognizes the same appreciation for Italy that they both share.

_How is everything with Allenby? I mean, Mark. Actually, what am I supposed to call the bloke who stole my best friend away from me? … Ignore that. I know you hate it when I talk about him like that. It's strange, you know? You've been with him a whole year. When I think about it, I always thought that, maybe, you would've… Well, I thought it would've been different. _

What exactly does "different" mean? Rose makes an unintelligible sound in the back of throat, tossing the second scrap to the floor in frustration. What exactly was with Scorpius Malfoy's obsession to be so bloody mysterious? Surely, after over a year of friendship, she would be able to read him by now. But, no, the bastard stays as enigmatic as ever.

And she can't hate him for it.

The rest of the letters are nearly indiscernible, a bunch of scrambled letters and smears of ink. She attempts to hold them together, figuring them out, but it's no use. Once again, Scorpius has left her utterly bewildered and at a loss.

She still has a letter that Mark didn't find. Tucked into the side of her mattress, still bound in an ivory envelope with an emerald wax seal, was the last letter Scorpius had ever sent to her. It had only been read once because she wasn't brave enough to read it again. She wouldn't ever be brave enough to completely say goodbye.

It's a little crinkled as she pulls it out for the second time. Carefully, she passes it between each of her hands, building up the courage to read it again. She will not cry this time, she promises herself. She should have never cried.

The wax seal pulls from the envelope easily and she has to suck in a slight breath. Then she chides herself, because she's not only being ridiculous but she's being a drama queen too. Words cannot possibly be that terrifying, she assures herself, and finally pulls the letter out. It's shorter than she'd hoped a goodbye to be, and, in no way, sweet.

_Rose, I can't do this anymore. I can't lie awake at night and wonder what would happen if I'd spoken up sooner. I can't spend my days wishing you were here. I can't have you constantly on my mind anymore. Please don't write to me anymore. Please don't try to find me. I want you to be happy, but at the same time, I need to be happy myself. I can't do that when I'm friends with you. I wish you all the best with your life, Scorpius._

Utter betrayal sinks into her gut as tears begin to fall and blemish the expensive, velvety parchment. Only Scorpius would write to her on something like that. It was the type of paper that arrogant snobs used to write. And that's exactly what he was – an arrogant, heart-breaking snob.

It's unfair of him to ask her this. What made him think that he could just tell her what to do? It's been four months since he sent the letter, but the emotion she's needed is finally hitting her. Anger. She's angry with him. How could he just pull himself away like that? With no reasons, no excuses.

Now, she finds herself rummaging through her perfectly neat drawer, grabbing a scrappy piece of parchment – Scorpius can stick his embossed letter where the sun doesn't shine – and she starts to do what he told her not to.

She starts the letter with: _Scorpius, you snobbish, pretentious prat…_

* * *

><p>God, he hates the snow.<p>

There's something about the way it instantly melts when he touches it, the way it soaks his clothes and leaves him in a drenched mess. It's a wonder to him that something so beautiful and pure could make him feel so cold.

Then again, Rose Weasley was beautiful as well.

He can't believe that he's standing in London again. What's even harder for him to comprehend is the reason that he's here. The letter sits crumpled in his pocket, having been read so many times that he could probably recite the words off by heart. And they weren't exactly complimentary either. Who knew that Rose had such a gutter-mouth?

There she went, surprising him again. You would think after being obsessed (he refuses to use the word beginning with 'L') with her after all this time, she would cease to keep him on his toes. But, no, as always she's one hard piece of work.

And he can't help but come back to her.

The thing was that he knew something was wrong the reason he read her letter. Perhaps it had been something in the way some parts of the parchment were darker than the rest, the tell-tale sign that she was upset? Or maybe, just maybe, the fact that she was writing to him, _defying him_, after all this time meant that she'd finally seen sense. Maybe she'd finally opened her eyes and realized what was going on.

Snow had soaked through his socks, causing his whole body to shiver involuntarily. He knows should stop being such a wuss, but the overwhelming realization that he was standing outside of Rose's apartment building almost paralyzes him.

For a moment, he wants to turn and run as fast as he can away.

It takes him a moment or two, but he finally pulls his feet into motion and walks towards the front door. Trying to keep himself as composed as possible, his slender finger traces her name, etched carelessly next to the buzzer. She always has had ridiculously untidy handwriting for a girl. He pushes the buzzer, sucks in his breath and waits.

"Hello?" Her voice from the speaker almost makes him stumble backwards. Something has changed about it. Is it older, wiser? Is it the voice of someone who's still in love with another man? Is it the voice of someone who misses him?

Scorpius has to clear his throat out of fear of choking. "Uh, hey. It's me."

There's a heavy silence, breached only by the fizzle of static in the speaker. A voice in the back of his head notes scornfully how ridiculously Muggle she lives, but he shuts it up quickly because she's talking again.

"Oh," she says. Then there's a sound that could possibly be her breath hitching but he doesn't want to raise his hopes. "Oh, hey, um, the door's open. Come up."

Not exactly the enthusiastic welcome he was expecting, but it was better than a slap in the face. The door makes a beeping sound and he tugs the handle, letting the warm air from inside wash over him. He shudders gently at the temperature change and warily steps inside.

The staircase in front of him winds upwards and all of a sudden, he feels excruciatingly nauseated. In a moment, he expects the room to start spinning or the roof to come crashing down onto him. He's close to her now, so close. There's no such thing as turning back.

One by one, he manages to force himself up the stairs. Perhaps once or twice, his wet feet slip and he finds himself clinging to the banister for support. This is utterly insipid, he notes bitterly, because he's still a Malfoy, no matter what girl he's going after. Malfoys don't stumble, stammer or slip.

He's about half-way up when he almost slips again. This time, however, it's because there's something – correction, _somebody _– standing in his way.

Rose, fiery and beautiful as ever, stares down at him with wide, warily eyes. He almost makes a joke about a deer caught in the headlights, but he thinks that he probably looks exactly the same. All she does is blink once and he has to fight the urge to grab her and kiss the life out of her.

They stare at each other for what seems like hours. Nobody wants to make the first move. This isn't what they do. This isn't normal for them. Somebody has to make the difference.

This time, it's her.

Her voice cracks as she says his name. "Scorpius."

"Rose," he replies, his voice equally strained. He keeps his gaze wary on her, completely unsure of what she might do. The urge to run is beginning to creep into his stomach again.

However, before it has a chance to blossom, she's throwing herself at him. Her arms wind around his neck and his around her waist, lifting her feet from the ground. She kisses him with such a force that he's afraid they might tumble backwards down the staircase. Hungrily, desperately, he keeps their kiss but pulls her legs to wrap around his waist. From then on, he walks them up the last few steps to the landing and pushes her back against her door.

This is exactly how he imagined it to be.

Tongues dart, teeth nip and hands wander as they reacquaint themselves with one another. All Scorpius can think of is fire and how hot her skin is to his cold touch. He has to fight the need to completely succumb to her and melt to the floor in a puddle.

After a few moments, their kisses calm down and they simply stand there, brushing noses and breathing heavily. Rose flicks her eyes over his face, as if trying to remember every crease of his face, and he does the same. They fit this way, like a lock and key.

His hand reaches to brush a stray curl from her forehead, unsticking it from the slight sheen of sweat that their embrace has induced. A small, soft smile tugs at his lips as he looks to her and there's a feeling in his chest that makes him want to implode. God, he _loves _her. He's never loved anyone before.

"Come inside?" she whispers, catching his hand by her head and pressing it to her lips. He nods silently and eagerly, unable to form a coherent sentence. He doesn't want to ruin it. He can't ruin it.

She gives him a warm smile and unlocks her legs from his waist, keeping his fingers tangled with hers. Slowly, she opens the door and leads him inside.

All he can think of is why on earth hadn't they done this sooner.

* * *

><p><strong>So, this is part one! There's a second part of the staircase. This is not the end. - insert evil laugh here - Oh, please don't hate me for the next chapter. There's a reason for everything I do! Okay? Okay. Drop me a review if you like it or if you don't. I can take a little hate once and a while.<strong>


	4. The Staircase Part Two

_'Cause the soul's rock hard,  
>But the heart's trapped underneath.<br>And the weight of it all gets enough,  
><em>_Just to crush the best out of you and me._

- House of Hallways by Go Radio.

* * *

><p>He couldn't comprehend how is it was even remotely possible to go from feeling so euphoric to becoming utterly depressed. Honestly, he would have preferred a dive into the Great Lake in December. Metaphorically speaking, this felt just as cold.<p>

The night before, on the other hand was like dipping into a warm bath, despite the minus degree temperature outside. Perhaps it had been the fact that he had fallen asleep happy - blissfully happy, in fact - that guaranteed his downfall the moment he opened his eyes. What did the Muggles call it? 'Murphy's Law'?

Either way, Scorpius was never good at handling irony.

* * *

><p>He had woken up that morning and for the few beautiful moments before his eyes flicked open, he relished in the idea that, yes, he had been wrong about love. Love wasn't out to get him or any other poor person who had succumbed to its iron grip. Love was a blessing, a warm embrace. It was something to wake up to in the morning and simply feel great about.<p>

However, the empty bed that greeted him when he finally did wake up proved that he had been right all along.

It didn't strike him with worry at first; it was the morning, Rose was probably up getting breakfast. The image of him wrapping his arms around her waist as she cooked gave him somewhat of a satisfied feeling.

Bounding from the bed, he had allowed himself a smirk. As cliché as he had turned out to be, he physically could not wait to see her again. Then her voice stopped him on his tracks.

"Mark," she had said. Something about the way her voice shook nervously made him want to barge through the door and play knight-in-shining-armour, but his feet kept rooted to the floor, his ear pressed to the thin wooden door.

There was a thud and the rushing of somebody throwing objects around the room in frustration. Angry protectiveness had begun to pool in Scorpius' stomach. If Allenby so much as touched Rose, he would see the green end of Scorpius' Avada.

Through the muffled sounds of struggle, Rose's voice squeaked, "Please, Mark, stop it!"

"Why should I?" the other wizard had growled. "Wouldn't you be angry to come home after two days to find another bloke in your bed with your fiancée?"

Fiancée? Something plummeted in his gut, rocking him to the balls of his feet. She was getting married? But she had slept with him. He had told her that he loved her! She had-

And that's when it dawned on him. He had been so caught up in the kissing, the touching and trying hard not to implode from loving her too much, that he never realized that she didn't say it back. Not once. Not even when they were curled up, making a cocoon around each other with their bodies, and he looked her straight in the eye and said it. No, all that she had done was giggle shyly then kiss him as a reward.

But she didn't love him.

Once again, irony struck him. Or was it karma? Either way, Scorpius had been played along like a cello, just as he had done to so many girls before Rose. He felt used, dirty almost. He was nothing but a rebound to distract her from her lovers' fight. With her fiancé, he found the need to add bitterly.

He had to get out of there before he threw up all over her cream carpet. Scattered around the room were his clothes, and with one look, the image of their desperate attempt to undress each other burned across the front of his mind. She had seemed just as into it as he was, just as needy. Despite his throbbing headache, he shook his head violently to rid himself of the thoughts.

In the flashing light of the mirror, he caught his reflection. It featured an untucked shirt, hair that stood up in various peaks and skin that was an alarming shade of grey. Basically, he looked as good as he felt – like utter shit.

Just like breakups, heartache was a foreign concept to Scorpius.

Since when had Rose become the kind of girl to sleep with guys behind her fiancé's back? Even if the fiancé was that twat Allenby? Even if the guy she was sleeping with was Scorpius Malfoy? It was cruel, and cold, and selfish; everything Rose had never been.

It was everything Scorpius was.

Sick to death of waiting, he finally found the courage to pull the door open and barge right into the heart of everything. He sauntered into the living room, his typical old façade of cool sarcasm making an appearance. Rose and Mark's arguing ceased and all eyes moved to him.

Everything froze, and for a split second, Scorpius found himself wondering if he'd make a mistake. Would it have been a better idea to slip out of the window? It would've been the colder, meaner thing to do to Rose – but right now, her feelings weren't exactly of his concern.

"Allenby," he had drawled, the corners of his lips tugging up ever so slightly. He made sure to shoot an appreciative look in Rose's direction, the kind that he used to give his one night stands after a decent shag. "Rose." His voice was even more suggestive than his look.

That's all it took to send Mark Allenby storming across the living room floor to send his fist into Scorpius' undeniably chiselled jaw. Pain rocketed through the bones of his face, adding to the throbbing in his head, but he simply took it. He straightened himself up, ignoring the spasms of agony that were burying into his skin and gave Mark another smirk.

There was a small silence; only to be broken my Rose's admonishing voice, "Mark!"

The darker haired boy simply glared at Scorpius and did nothing else but spit – yes, _spit_ – on his shirt. Scorpius wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Well, I wouldn't expect anything else from a Mudblood."

Even Rose gasped at that but before Mark could hit Scorpius again, she had grabbed his hand. She yanked him back to face him, her eyes pleading. "Don't hit him. Please, don't hit him again."

Panic rang through Rose's voice and into the air, shattering the tension into slithers of ice, slicing through each of the men's thoughts. Despite her actions, neither of them could help the tug in their chest at the sound of her desperation.

Mark dropped his hand. "I'll get my stuff in the afternoon," he mumbled, stalking out into the hallway, slamming the door after him. Rose had made an exasperated noise and followed quickly after him. And, as always, Scorpius had followed her.

* * *

><p>Which is how he finds himself standing out in the cold stairwell, willing her to make a choice. Down the stairs, Mark is jogging angrily and she's calling after him, begging him to come back. Scorpius doesn't think he can take it anymore – the icy trickle of hate is beginning to seep into his veins. He's not the one she wants, he realizes. He never has been. Not on the Eve of their Graduation, not in the coffee shop, not last night. There was no hope for the pair of them.<p>

"Mark, please!" she cries, leaning over the banister. There's a skid of footsteps sliding on marble and he shouts back something unintelligible. Rose glances at Scorpius, once again like a deer in the headlights, and swallows hard. This is her call and she knows it. "Just wait," she asks Scorpius softly. "Please just wait and we'll talk."

He actually finds himself considering it – which isn't so surprising considering this is Rose Weasley we're talking about and despite her being a total, heart-breaking bitch, he can't help but be in love with her. It takes a few moments, but he looks her straight in the eye, and he asks her.

"Who are you going to choose?"

The lump in her throat is beginning to grow, and by now she feels like she can't breathe. She stares at Scorpius – beautiful, snow-like Scorpius – and a thousand words come rushing to the tip of her tongue. However, they stay there, unable to form into a coherent sentence.

Mark makes an impatient noise from down the stairwell, and she feels the choice slipping away from her fingers. How could she choose between the stable, grounded boy who swept her away with his kindness and the gorgeous, steel enigma that was her best friend? From what she can tell, she loves both of them, but she knows who she's going to choose.

Quickly, before he has the chance to leave, she darts down the steps, almost tripping as she goes. "Mark!" she calls, her footfalls and voice echoing together through the building. "Mark, wait."

He waits. Turning, his dark brown eyes set on her in scrutiny, daring her to mess this up. It doesn't affect her though – she can see right through it. She walks up to him, her heart hammering in her rib cage, and puts a hand on his chest.

"We can't do this," she whispers, her fingers gently curling around his shirt. "You know we can't."

At first, he looks like he's about to scream at her, but realization darkens his already coffee coloured eyes. Everything about him softens, and slowly, the boy she bumped into in University comes back to her. The urge to wrap her arms around his neck and hold him close bubbles in her gut, but she smothers it. This is not the time to hold him – it's a time to talk.

He runs his fingers through his hair, a sure sign that he's uneasy. "It's been coming for a while, hasn't it?"

Rose nods, the lump in her throat finally cutting off her ability to speak.

"You hurt everybody," he says, shaking his head at her. His voice isn't angry or sad; it's some cross between disappointed and numb. "You have no idea either. Don't you realize that no matter whom you choose neither of us is ever going to really stop hurting over this?"

His words strike her in the stomach, and she can feel the bile rising in her throat. Nobody has ever spoken like that to her before, but she knows they're true because Mark doesn't lie.

Apparently she does though.

"I'm sorry," she all but whimpers, as he turns to face the front door. He just shakes his head, and as he slams the door she thinks she might have heard a "me too" floating in with the cold wind.

She made her choice. Ice over fire. Sarcasm over romantic whispers. Some mixture of relief and happiness floods over her and she looks quickly upwards, a beam spreading across her face.

But, as she does, the 'pop!' of Apparation bounces between the walls of the stairwell, falling down onto her like a ton of bricks. Her feet begin racing up the stairs, stumbling a few times, terrified of finding the landing empty.

And it is. She made her choice, but so did he. He didn't want her. He left, just as she had left him before. Perhaps that's what Mark meant by neither of them were going to stop hurting. The complete sickening feeling of what really had happened made her knees go weak.

All in the brief time of the morning, she had gone from having everything to being left with nothing.

She was absolutely alone again.

* * *

><p><strong>Not going to lie, that wasn't the best chapter that I've ever written. Mm, perhaps I'm losing my touch. Anyway, I'd love to hear what any of you thought! One more chapter to go. <strong>


	5. Not a Balcony nor Staircase

_It's meeting the man of my dreams,_  
><em>And then meeting his beautiful wife,<em>  
><em>And isn't it ironic... don't you think?<br>_

- Ironic by Alanis Morissette.

* * *

><p>Lily Luna Potter has never been the type for messy relationships; there was always too much drama in them for her liking. That was why she, at aged 21, was happily married and living with her best friend. There was never question to the marriage - Lily and Asher were meant to be from the moment they met, even if they didn't realize it. From First Year onwards, Asher Zabini might as well of had himself surgically attached to Lily's hip, joining the Zabini and Potter family in a somewhat awkward union. Still, the more the pair grew to love each other, the more their families began to mesh.<p>

However, one particular family member of Lily's had grown especially attached to Asher.

An unforgiving pelt of rain slashes down onto 19 Hawkin Drive, Edinburgh trapping its residents inside. Lily sits in the kitchen, sketchbook open before her and paint pallets dotted around the table. Across from her, Rose Weasley is slumped in a chair with a cup of untouched cold tea by her head. The terrible weather only enhanced the negative feelings in the house - most of them voiced by Rose.

"Come on, Weasley," Asher says, playfully kicking her chair as he passes. A disgruntled noise comes from the mass of curls that cover her face but it is nothing intelligeble. He simply chuckles in response, removing the cold cup of tea, and moves to kiss his wife. "Good morning, beautiful."

Lily smiles softly up at him. "Good morning to you too."

Another noise, somewhat similar to gagging, fills the room. For the first time in the past hour, Rose moves. She sits up, throwing her head back and rubbing her eyes. "You guys are disgusting."

This was the usual bitterness that had consumed Rose's personality in the past few weeks. The snow outside had melted into unpleasant slush but it seemed her heart had only grown colder. If she was being honest, she felt sick with emptiness. It was as if there was a gaping hole in her stomach and nothing - not food, not water, not company of her friends - could fill it. It was driving her up the wall.

Asher rolls his eyes unsympathetically. "Get up and shower. You might be okay with the idea of being an old cat lady, but I am not okay with my house smelling like one."

She made a hissing sound at him as Lily gave him a reprimanding look. The truth was that Asher and Rose were actually really good friends - closer than Rose and Lily, in fact. He was the reason she came trudging up to Scotland. Apparently, she had the idea that he would at least give her a little sympathy; she was wrong.

"Or you could tell us why you and Mark broke up? Perhaps that would stop the moping?" Lily asks, not in an unkind way. That was the thing about Lily. She was perfectly able to ask confrontational questions and nobody cared because she was just so _nice. _

However, no matter how nice Lily was, the question still felt like a pitchfork driven into her stomach. She makes an uncommital sound, wrinkling her noise. The story behind her and Mark's unpleasant break up - that was followed by the even more unpleasant departure of Scorpius - hadn't managed to find its way out of Rose's mouth. It might have been that she was scared - probably more embarrased. Admitting that you'd not only fucked up once, but _twice_, was definitely not a usual habit for her.

"Just leave her, Lily," Asher pipes up. "Obviously he just got sick of her fiery PMS and moved on with his life."

Never in her life has Rose moved faster to hit him in the arm. "If you must know," she snarls, allowing herself a satisfied grin at his groan, "it was a mutual break up."

"Bullshit," and he still manages to smirk as he rubs his arm.

She doesn't want to talk about this. She doesn't _have _to. All she has to do is crawl into her little hole of lonliness and read Sylvia Plath for the rest of her life.

Once again, she finds herself being dramatic. It tends to become a habit whenever feelings surrounding a particular Malfoy are involved.

Letting out a composed breath, she straightens herself. "I'm going to shower."

"Good," Asher replies snarkily, reaching forward to ruffle her hair. She dodges it effortlessly but earns a snicker from him nonetheless. As she is about to leave the room, he adds, "Oh, me and Lily are going out to a wedding. You're not invited, if you hadn't guessed."

Lily gives him another chiding look. "What he means to say is that I totally forgot that it was today. We should have told you sooner, sorry."

A wedding. Lovely. At least somebody out there wasn't being completely torn apart by this whole, stupid concept of _love_. She turns to give Lily a smile, nodding a little. "That's fine. I'll probably go see Mum or something."

And with that she leaves Lily and Asher to do whatever perfectly-in-love couples do, not without taking the overwhelming feeling of seasickness with her.

* * *

><p>The only thing Rose has really inherited from her father is their shared love of cold showers. No matter how freezing it is outside, the water will only ever reach lukewarm. It is probably because an icy bucket of cold water on her head makes her feel like she's been given a clean slate - she's pure again, in a sense.<p>

She steps out of the shower, bouncing on her toes as they hit the floor. The thing about Single-Digit-Degree-Celsius showers is that they make everything else seem so much colder - especially tiles. It isn't until there is a fluffy white towel wrapped around her chest and her feet can feel Lily's perfect cream carpet beneath them, that she relaxes.

Something about the past few weeks didn't seem as terrible as she had previously imagined. She had been alone before, so why did it have to be so hard now? There were always going to be constants in her life; she had books, she had family, she had the whole world to travel. It seemed a little inane for somebody as rational and grounded as Rose Weasley to spend her time pining over how much of an idiot she had been.

Or, more so, the idiot she had gone and lost. No matter how it came down to it, travelling, family and books were never going to be quite as exciting as stolen kisses on a staircase and freckled skin against pale.

By now, her hair has stopped dripping down her back and the sunlight has fought its way out of the clouds enough to light the room. She moves through to the hallway, wriggling her toes against the hardwood floor and all of a sudden, totally out of the blue, she feels happy. Like, really happy. Euphoria bubbles in her stomach and she can't help but smile. There's some boppy Muggle song stuck in her hand - the type with a typical _lalala_ chorus - and she has to fight the urge to belt it out at the top of her lungs. She can't remember feeling like this in a long time.

It's one of those moments that one often brings upon themself. It's that realization that even though life seems really, really shit at the moment, you'll actually be okay. So, she thinks to herself, why not sing?

She throws herself into the lyrics, dancing around in the sparse beams that trickle through the half-open curtains. Wet red curls whip through the air, sticking occasionally to her damp skin, but she doesn't notice. Finally, the cloud above her head has disappeared.

Her spontaneous dancing continues for a good few minutes, the song from her mouth repeating itself when she forgets the next words. If anyone were to look through the window right now and watch her, they wouldn't think that she'd spent the past twenty-seven days in her own self-contained box of gloom. Even Truffles, Lily's deranged cat, wanders past in bewilderment at her new behaviour. He lets out a questioning mew only to be swooped up into Rose's arms, and carried around in her dance. He mews again; this time, however, in utter disdain.

Before he can swipe out and scratch her, Rose expertly drops him onto the couch, flopping herself down beside him. Laughter ripples in her chest, waiting to escape, as she catches her breath. It feels good, she notes, to finally do something out of utter spontaneity. As if her whole body, her whole being, feels a whole lot lighter.

She's about to burst into song again when Truffles gives a disgruntled growl and pounces onto the side table. In doing this, he manages to send a dozen envelopes cascading to the floor.

Rose lets out a sigh. "Now you've done it, cat."

He gives her a look that spells out just how concerned he is about it - which isn't very much at all - and trots off towards the kitchen. With a roll of her eyes, Rose moves from the couch, holding her towel against her, and bends to collect the envelopes.

Now, don't get her wrong, Rose isn't the kind of person to snoop through a person's mail. To do so would be rude and possibly strip her of what little integrity she was still clinging onto. However, when the first envelope she picks up is embossed in a trademark pattern of connected serpents, her heart can't help but drop to her stomach.

Emerald ink swirls across the front, addressing Lily and Asher in perfect cursive font. Astoria Malfoy's handwriting, if she's not mistaken. Something that she's familiar with due to a short correspondence with the woman concerning Scorpius' travels. Astoria had hoped to persuade (read: begged) Rose to accompany him around Europe, but Rose had politely declined. She had a boyfriend at the time to consider.

Suddenly, all that bright and bubbly pleasantness has taken the opportunity to leave. Easily replacing it, however, is the panicked beating of her pulse. What could Astoria Malfoy possibly want to discuss with Lily and Asher? More importantly, why would she contact Lily at all? It was common knowledge that the Malfoy and Zabini families were still quite close, but Lily had never made any claim to interacting with the family. If she had, wouldn't Scorpius had told Rose about it?

Unless it was something important, like an invitation. Asher would automatically be invited to anything to do with the Malfoy family, and Lily would automatically go along as his wife. Something rocks inside of Rose's stomach - didn't they say that they were going to a wedding?

She tears open the envelope so fast that it slices the side of her finger. Ignoring the sting, she tugs the lavish parchment out and reads it frantically.

_You have been cordially invited to the wedding of our dearest child.  
>This perfect celebration will take place on the sixteenth of January,<br>At our home, the Malfoy Manor.  
>The ceremony will commence at 11am, please be prompt.<br>Formal dress is a must.  
>All our hopes in seeing you, Draco and Astoria Malfoy.<em>

If that happiness was ever planning on making a reappearance, it was long gone now. Three thousands tons of rock, however, deposited itself right back onto Rose's shoulders. She physically sags under the feeling, her knees buckling. Fortunately, the couch is a soft landing.

The invitation trembles in between her fingers and, being the masochist she is, she can't tear her gaze away from the words. What kind of man lets his parents write his wedding invitations? A pompous, pretentious prat - that's who. It's just so typically _Malfoy_. Even the image of his last name flourishing across the paper makes bile rise in her throat.

Twenty-seven days. It has been twenty-seven days since she last saw him. How dare he have the _nerve _to ask her to choose when he had his own fiancee waiting for him back home? How dare he have the nerve to tell her that he loved her?

Did he? Or was that just some romantic lie brought on by the surging endorphins gained from their - let's be honest - fantastic sex? She hadn't said it back because she knew, she _knew_, that there had to be a catch. Scorpius Malfoy wouldn't just love someone like her.

Where there was once an empty hole, anger flares within her belly. It isn't a familiar fury; it swarms up into her throat, hot and steady, and threatens to choke her. Her hands, still trembling, curl into fists at her side. If Rose isn't the kind of girl who snoops into other people's mail, then she most definitely is not the kind of a girl to gatecrash a wedding.

But it seems there is always an exception to every rule.

* * *

><p><strong>Hmm. I planned to have the wedding in this chapter, but I got carried away with Rose. Oh dear! So, an extra chapter for you lovelies to enjoy. A big thanks to everyone who has reviewedalerted/favourited. It honestly makes my day. Let me know what you think of this one!**


	6. The Third, and Final, Balcony

_Every new beginning  
>Comes from some other<br>Beginning's end.  
><em>

_- _Closing Time by Semisonic.

* * *

><p>For a wedding hosted by the most notorious Slytherins alive, Rose finds it somewhat lacking in green.<p>

Instead, the orchard in which the ceremony was taking place is strung with golden silks and twinkling fairy-lights. It is done obnoxiously so - there might as well be a flashing sign screaming "Look here! It's a wedding!" - and that irks her. As much as Scorpius is an arrogant bastard, an attention seeker he is not. It just goes to show what kind of awful woman he's about to marry.

Crowds of elegantly dressed aristocrats mingle together, all in their element as they compliment the orchard with just a touch of insincerity. Rose could swear she just heard the phrase "Wedding of the Year!" float around among the streaming decorations. Not if she had anything to do with it.

There was a number of things that could go wrong; the first being caught by Draco Malfoy. As sarcastic as he was regal, the ability to read Rose's mind was a common trait between father and son. He was far from dense and would know what she was doing with a single glance. There was doubt that he would have her carted away. Nothing could be allowed to spoil such an important social event.

The second being that once - _if_ - she manages to get face to face with Scorpius, he could always turn around and scream at her. Hurl insults, call her names, yell that he never wants to see her again - all things that would inevitably cause her heart to break. Or worse, he could laugh at her, as if it was completely banal of her to think that she - the lowly Rose Weasley - could have any effect whatsoever on his marriage. No matter how furious he makes her, she doesn't think her pride can take the blow.

And finally, the option that scares her the most, is that he could listen. Despite how angry she is, she isn't really here to sabotage his wedding - at least, not out of spite. How could she? The git has wormed his way into her heart and is breaking her resolve from the inside out. She loves him, desperately, and all she wants to do is tell him before he gives himself away for good. He doesn't have to say it back, he doesn't have to leave his fiancee, he just has to know. That's all she wants.

However, if he does happen to change his mind and run out with her into the sunset, she wouldn't mind a bit.

Taking a deep breath, she pushes open the grand steel gates and walks down the gravel path. She sticks out like a sore thumb wearing tattered jeans and a striped sweater. Her hair is even still dripping down her back! But she doesn't care. She isn't here to look pretty. She is simply hear to deliver a message.

One that requires a response that will determine her future happiness. No big deal.

She hears whispers the moment she enters the orchard - _Ronald and Hermione Weasley's daughter coming to a Malfoy wedding? Absurd!_ - but she ignores them. The only thing she can really hear is her blood rushing to her ears, accompanied by the thudding beat of her heart. Suddenly, her palms are sweaty and her knees are a little weak, and she's _terrified_. She half-wishes that Draco Malfoy will appear out of nowhere and banish her from the Manor until the end of time.

Unfortunately, he doesn't and her feet are traitors. In an act of betrayal, they lead her directly towards a small collection of white canopy tents concealing what she assumes will be the most important members of the wedding party. This whole scene is so very _dramatic. _She's always thought that, despite his love for tradition, Scorpius was more of a guy who would marry you at the Local Registry office. No fuss, no frills - just two people in love. Obviously this mystery woman is having a somewhat negative effect on his views.

She reaches the first canopy and listens for the tell-tale squealing of the bride and her bridesmaids. There is nothing. Mustering all of the courage she can - keeping in mind that she isn't a Gryffindor for a reason - she pulls the opening of the tent backwards, and pokes her head inside.

It's amazing what magic can do. The interior the tent is a lavish lounge room, complete with mirrors stretching across the length of the material wall. Suits in all different shades of greys and blacks hang from the ceiling. The couches are made of the finest cream suede - not surprising - but who is sitting in one catches her off guard. She doesn't know why - he's the person she's been looking for.

Astoria stands in front of him, proceeding in the motherly act of fixing his tie. His strong chin juts upwards in a muted indignance - real men shouldn't have to get their mothers to tie their ties - and he looks as handsome as ever. Something contracts around Rose's heart for a moment before her brain completely melts in oblivion. She can barely remember why she's here. All she knows is that the man in the tent, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, is the epitome of perfection.

"Now, I keep telling you, dear," Astoria chides goodnaturedly, "Twist, loop, loop, knot. It's honestly not hard at all."

Scorpius fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, mother."

"What are you going to do after you get married?" she continues, combing through his platinum locks with her fingers. "Ask your wife to do it for you?"

Just the very word 'wife' cuts into Rose like nothing she'd ever experienced before. He was getting married. There was no going back from this moment. And if he was getting married to somebody other than her, did that mean he loved that girl more?

"I think I'm perfectly capable of-" His words cut off as he flicks his eyes sideways, catching Rose in the opening. Traitorous as always, her feet root to the floor and she's paralysed. "Rose?"

Astoria turns to her with a flourish, a wide, yet confused, smile on her face. "Rose, darling, I certainly wasn't expecting you!"

Guilt warms her face in a flush. Suddenly, the realization of how important this moment was for people other than her and Scorpius hits home. "I'm not staying long. At least, not for the ceremony. I just..."

She trails off, not knowing how to explain. Scorpius' sharp gaze is still on her, scrutinizing and cool. "You just?" he prompts.

The Gryffindor inside of her starts to emerge when she turns away from Astoria, looking him straight in the eye. "I just came to say something."

"Perhaps another time," Astoria says, making a strangled noise in the back of her throat. "We're a little busy."

Scorpius, however, stands to his feet. "She'll be quick."

A sudden nauseous shock clings to her at his firm voice. All this time, the words had done nothing but swim around her mind, repeating themselves over and over. Now her brain was empty abyss - she had no idea what to say. Nothing that sprang to mind was enough.

Astoria, once again, made a sound of despair and muffles it in the back of her throat. This time, she flounces past Rose, giving her a weak smile as she does, and left. There was nobody in the tent except Rose and Scorpius; a fact that sent shivers down her spine.

He stares at her, his stormy eyes unyielding. If either of them was going to make the first move, it was going to be her. It has to be her. Fear grips at her mercilessly, disabling her thoughts as well as her voice. Questions began to tear at her: was this fair? Was it what she really wanted?

A few minutes pass and all they do is stare across the tent at one another. She can see the impatience start to crack his perfectly composed mask and decides that she has to speak up now. It's either that or let him go.

"What you said to me," Rose starts warily, "back at my apartment, did you mean it?"

"I said a lot of things."

There's something in his voice that makes her think that it's too late, he's too far gone. Still, she isn't going to give up without a fight. She juts her chin forward, a feigned look of confidence. "You said that you loved me."

Emotion flickers behind his eyes, something Rose can't define. He swallows noticeably. "Yes, I said that."

"Did you mean it?"

Crackling tension fills the tent as the pair remain silent, watching each other with caution. Whatever was said next, from either party, could change the direction of their story entirely. Tears claw at the back of Rose's eyes but she stubbornly refuses their escape. Scorpius looks at her as if one more word might break him.

"Of course," he finally breathes, his smooth expression crumbling. Where absolute fear consumes him, it is hope that fills Rose. Hope that maybe, just maybe, he might still feel the same way.

She opens her mouth, fearlessness rushing through her veins. "Scorpius, I-"

"Darling, come on! The ceremony is about to start and you'll be late!"

The sound of Astoria's frantic voice shatters the atmosphere into tiny splinters of glass. Rose looks to Scorpius, the hope inside of her desperate not to dwindle. However, his composed mask is back and he is watching her contemplatively - that was never a good sign. His expression screams 'responsibility' and there's nothing more that Rose wants than to crawl back into that hole of hers.

Scorpius steps towards her, his gaze brushing her skin like a feather, and he has the nerve to look sorry. "I have to go."

She wants to reach out to him, she wants to plead, she wants to drop to her knees and sob at his feet; but she doesn't. Her old friend Rationality had left her to deal with everything right up until now. Realization of what she's actually doing flashes in front of her eyes like a neon sign. No matter what she says, there's going to be somebody that gets hurt out of all this. She can't be that selfish, she just can't.

"Can't it wait?" he asks, his voice tired. Paused by the opening of the tent, the late afternoon sun turning his blonde hair into a typical halo, Rose knows that his beauty will never get old. He wants to know, she can tell, by the curiosity that gleams in his eyes. But curiosity killed the cat, and she refuses to kill his wedding.

She purses her lips, forcing them into a tight smile. "I just wanted to say congratulations. I'm happy for you."

Rose can almost see the words worming their way into his brain, linking together in comprehension. That line of concentration that appears in between his eyebrows when he's confused appears and she knows that, for once, she's caught him off guard. He forces a tight smile, muttering something of a thanks and leaves, abandoning Rose to her Fate.

That Fate, in which, happiness isn't really an aspect.

* * *

><p>How dare she? How dare she show up to the wedding, dressed in nothing but a pair of jeans, and twist him right back around her little finger?<p>

And to think that he almost let her. It was absurd.

The wedding was over, thank Merlin. What could have possibly possessed his mother to throw a wedding for her cats._ Cats_ as in four-legged, hairball-spitting demon creatures. Scorpius hates cats. Especially ones dressed in wedding attire.

So, if his day hadn't be torturous enough, Rose decides to be the icing on the cake. He doesn't even know where she's gone, but he's searching. Wandering around his over-illustrious manor like an idiot trying to find her. Because that's what he'll always be when it comes to Rose - a blundering fool.

She can't have gone far, he tells himself. The soles of his perfect Italian shoes - the type with just the right amount of ill-comfort - squeak against the marble, the sound bouncing from the walls covered in leering, cold-eyed portraits. His heart is pounding in his chest, drowning out the squeaking.

Where the hell is she?

After a good ten minutes of running, his determination is about to give way. Malfoys are not the type of men to run about for a girl in the first place, and ten minutes is pushing it. His feet stumble to a stop, his fingers tugging through his hair in frustration. All that's left to do know is turn around and admit defeat.

Then he catches a glimpse of colour. The only colour to break the harsh grays, black and silvers. A splash of red in the corner of his eye. He turns, his heart beginning to hammer again, towards an open door leading out onto one of their many balconies.

Through the folded french doors, Rose stands against the railing holding her chin in her hands. He takes one look at her and fear rocks through him. This moment, this exact second, is the point of no return. He has a choice: step out onto the balcony and face breaking every belief that had been drummed into him as a child, or walk away.

There isn't really a competition.

"Rose," he breathes, stepping out into the cold evening air. It's only really late afternoon but the days have fallen short. If he looked hard enough, he could probably point out a few pinpricks of light in the sky - the wishing stars.

She turns to him in surprise, her blue eyes mirroring the twilight night. "Oh, Scorpius." She swallows, as if she's fighting back words that are piling in her mouth. She forces a smile. "Congratulations."

Pulling his eyebrows together in confusion, he flicks his eyes over her face. Where it's usually pale and smooth and dusted with freckles, it's covered in soft red blotches. Her eyes, still vibrant and cerulean, are a little bloodshot. She's been crying, he realizes, and that hidden Gryffindor-esque protectiveness makes another appearance.

"You're upset," he says in all obliviousness. "You're crying."

Rose chokes back a bit of wet laugh and wipes her face. "Oh really? I hadn't noticed."

He steps closer to her, ignoring her noticeable step back (a sign of self-preservation, he would later realize) and captures one of her wild, unruly curls around his finger. The contrast is shockingly familiar - red against cream, heat against the cold. It defines them, really. Just that small, mundane gesture makes up their definition.

Suddenly they're both seventeen again, standing out in the cold night, merely hours before their graduation. Everything had seemed so huge then as if one wrong move would send their whole future into a catastrophic abyss. At seventeen, everything seemed like the end of the world even if it was just the beginning.

Which it was. Neither of them realize it but that night, that conversation, that kiss, is the catalyst that lands them here. This moment, this fragile segment of an hour glass is linked with a tiny red string, lacing back to that bottle of firewhiskey and that horrible feeling of impending failure. Rose wanted to step out of her little box - she did. Scorpius wanted to feel something - well, he was here wasn't he? Both of them were.

She's shying away from him, her glazed eyes trained adamantly on the floor. She refuses to look at him in absolute fear that she'll crumble away. He'll always have that effect on her, married or not.

"Rose, look at me." His voice is panicked, but soft. The farthest thing she's ever heard it from composed. She looks up at him, not out of obedience but shock. Like a rock penetrating the surface of a lake, his eyes bore into hers. "I don't know why you're crying. Tell me. Please? I need to..."

The words trail off, something flashing in his granite gaze. Incredulity rockets through her. How could he not understand why she was upset? Didn't he even feel the slightest sadness knowing that what they had - whatever tainted, flimsy and vague moment - could never be touched again?

"I'm upset because I love you," she finally cries, though her voice can barely count as a whisper. "I love you and you're married! And it's my fault you're married because I ignored everything, _everything_, and I was too stubborn and scared to do anything about it!"

She tugs herself back from him harshly, and he lets her go, too frozen in surprise to react. What was once a concerned gaze had shifted into something else. It wasn't exactly harder, only it had an edge to it. It wasn't soft and loving; it was as if she had hit him full on with the Hogwarts Express.

Swallowing back, she can't help the words that spew from her mouth, unraveled with the rest of them. "And you're an absolute snob! You're a prat, actually. And I'm so _angry _with you, Scorpius! I want to punch you in the face, but I can't! I can't because I could nev-"

Cliche of all cliches, her words are stopped with his kiss. It isn't burning with fire, and it isn't tender and sweet. It's knowing and sarcastic, and if a smirk could be translated into a kiss, it would be this.

She pushes him away furiously. "You son of a bitch! How could you?"

He looks at her, long and hard, for a moment before chuckling. The glare from her only intensifies, the flush on her cheeks from kissing only making her all the more amusing. "I don't understand why you think I would _ever _get married."

"Because..." The sound of the clogs churning her brain is almost audible. It never really made sense for Scorpius to be getting married but she had just put it down to her own loathing of the idea. Not once did the memory of their first coffee date slip into mind.

_"Thoughts on marriage?" she said, eyeing him over the edge of her mug. His eyebrows shot up and he blinked a couple of times.  
><em>

_"Is that something you usually ask people you don't really know?"_

_She smiled at him. "Just answer the question."_

_"Not for me," he replied after a few thoughtful moments. Rose nodded, and that was that._

A delicate, wary smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "So... you aren't married."

He shakes his head slowly, his typical smirk growing across his face. Closer and closer he moves, pressing her up against the railing of the balcony with a grin. "I am not married nor attached to any woman."

"I see," she replies, desperately keeping her breathing and hammering heart unnoticeable. Her eyes flick up to find him already raking her face hungrily, teasingly, _adoringly_ with his own. "That's... useful information to withhold."

"It is."

"Indeed."

Feather-light, his lips are brushing over hers again, sending sporadically shivers over her skin. All she has to do is lean up and give in to his teasing, but she doesn't want to. Instead, she wants to stay here, trapped between him and the possibility of falling to her death, relishing in this moment of victory. When she had thought she had lost, he came riding back to her - her crooked, snobbish knight in shining armour with a tendency of harbouring firewhiskey on his person.

Because, all in all, this is another one of those moments that are indefinable. Is it the beginning of the Rose-And-Scorpius-Happily-Ever-After? Or is the ending of their first beginning? Is it merely just a milestone or a chapter? She doesn't know. She'll never know. All that she knows is that every moment leading up this, and every moment leading onward, is tied with that mysterious red string that links it all together.

That piece of red string that turned three balconies and a staircase, four completely ordinary and untouched places, into monumental landmarks of history. Of _their _history.

**Fin.**

* * *

><p><strong>Well, first of all, I'll apologize for the wait. Second of all, I'll explain that this chapter took <em>forever<em> to come out and I still don't think it's fantastic. Oh well, tell me what you think. AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND REVIEWING! I'LL ABUSE THE CAPSLOCK BECAUSE I LOVE YOU THAT MUCH. YES, I DO! I LOVE YOU! And this is the end. Or is it the beginning? **

**- Holly.**


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